Quod Effrego Meus Pectus Pectoris
by Eyrir Mal
Summary: His touch holds no violence and it breaks my heart. Where so many others, gods, demons... our father have failed, I have succeeded. I have brought the mighty Thor to his knees. Loki's thoughts during the last battle. Not slash, minor spoilers.


**A/N: I originally wrote this hours after seeing the movie the day it came out. That being said, I do realize that the chronology of some of the characters' statements are miss-placed and/or out of order, but I suggest not getting too hung up on such minute details, because honestly, the pacing I've used works, but I wanted to acknowledge that I knew the time line was technically incorrect.  
**

**Quod Effrego Meus Pectus Pectoris**

His hand presses firmly against the back of my neck, his fingers warm against my skin. This is not the first time we have been like this, but I suddenly understand that it will be the last. His voice is low and urgent in my ears, pleading with me… begging. His fingers stroke my hair and a thought comes impetuously to my mind.

We are both young, only small children. I run too fast down the steps and fall, tumbling the last few feet to land in an unceremonious heap. He cries out, running to me, and I look up, searching his face for my cue. I know if he is upset I will cry, though I do not wish to. But his face is calm, serene, even if his eyes are filled with concern. He looks over me and smiles, pleased with his childish assessment.

"You should watch more careful," he says.

He kneels beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder. His other hand comes to rest on my head running softly down my crown and stopping at my cheek. He tangles his fingers briefly in my raven hair, his mouth tugging down in a thoughtful frown.

"We should have Mother cut your hair. It is even longer than mine." He grins at me. "You look like a girl."

A laugh bursts easily from my lips and he pulls me to my feet, hugging me fiercely before letting go and running off to join the others.

"You give up the tesseract!" he rails at me, bringing me back to the present. He pulls me closer. "Give up this poisonous dream!" He closes what little distance remains between us. His voice drops, meant for me alone, and it is strained, close to breaking. "You come home."

Once again, I search his face for my cue. I am looking for that emotion. That limpid gaze of his that says, I would die for you. To my surprise I see it, but I knew I would. That is when I understand that I am not looking for the absence of something, but the presence of its opposite. I pull him imperceptibly closer, grey eyes searching blue. Ah yes, there it is. His love is blinding, but underneath it, that is what I seek. My stomach clenches and I am nearly sick. I feared the worst and it is true—my own brother.

His hand moves, sliding down to the crook between my neck and shoulder. It is a soft insistence that holds none of the violence that I know he is capable of; none of the violence that I surely deserve. Suddenly I can no longer withstand his proximity and a panic flushes through me.

My hand moves of its own accord, my mind barely conscious of the action. A soft snitch of sound and the small blade punches through leather, metal, flesh, and bone. He grunts sharply, pulling away from me, but it is a moment's instinct. I have harmed him. Not with specific malicious intent, that is true, but I have purposely hurt him, and yet he pulls me back to him. His eyes plead with me, even now that he knows I am lost; even now that he fears me, he begs me to stay.

That hand is on my neck again; no attack, no brutality, just a gentle caress and it breaks my heart. My face contorts showing the true feelings of my heart, but only for an instant before that mask of false serenity slides into place. My lips quiver and I cannot stop the motion, though I strangely find that I do not want to. I push him firmly away, and the disbelief in his eyes sears my soul.

I feel no loyalty or love toward him, or anything, or anyone. I desperately try to convince myself of this, but I cannot make myself believe it. Even so, he does. He cannot fight this. Where so many others, gods, demons… our father have failed, I have succeeded. I have brought the mighty Thor to his knees.

He slumps to the ground, his head dropping, the struggle gone from him. He will always love me, I comprehend that now, but he will never trust me again. This awareness shakes me to my foundations and I draw a shuddering breath. I step away from him, but I want only to sink beside him, to pull him into an embrace and never let go. Self-loathing washes over me like a flood and it threatens to drown me.

"What a stupid sentimentality," I whisper, and a single tear rolls unbidden down my cheek.


End file.
